“ Did Nigel Saxon see you about the report?' Tyson asked.
'Yes, but I'm still up to my eyes. It will have to wait.'
'Fair enough,' said Tyson. 'The patients come first.'
It was after seven when Fenton got home. He arrived to find Jenny in particularly attentive mood. 'Do I have to guess what you are going to ask or are you going to tell me?' he asked.
'It's Mrs Doig's fan heater. I said that you would have a look at it. There's a smell of burning.'
'Sure,' said Fenton.
'I love you,' said Jenny.
Mrs Doig was their next door neighbour, a woman in her seventies who lived alone with two cats and her memories. Jenny had adopted her as a personal responsibility with Fenton providing the technical back-up, changing tap washers, mending fuses and the like.
They finished their meal and went next door, Fenton carrying screwdriver and pliers. The old woman was clearly pleased to see them and bade them enter. 'You'll have a cup of tea?' she asked. Fenton was about to decline when Jenny nudged him, knowing how much the old woman liked to feel she was doing something for them. Fenton removed the back of the fan heater as the women chatted but still found time to observe Jenny in action. Whereas he himself would adopt a cheerful air and make forced conversation about the weather Jenny was quite sincere in her care and concern for the old woman. She would joke with her, tease her, cajole her into laughter until her spirits rose visibly and she would begin to speak freely. Fenton felt a lump come to his throat. He knew that Jenny would like them to marry and have children. If only he could get over the awful mental block of associating marriage with the agony of losing Louise, the unreasonable yet undeniable feeling that he would be tempting fate.
He found the fault in the heater and repaired it. Like everything else in the flat, it was old, the black, coal fired grate, the dark, varnished wallpaper, the five amp wiring, all just waiting for the old woman to die before being stripped out at the end of an era. 'All done,' he said.
Fenton poured out a couple of drinks when they got back to their own flat and they sat in front of the fire nursing their glasses. He mentioned his conversation with Ian Ferguson.
'Ian Ferguson?' exclaimed Jenny. 'You surprise me.'
'Why so?'
He's a public school product. I thought that all that emphasis on character building would make him the last person to run away from an unpleasant situation.
'Maybe 'character' has to be innate after all,' said Fenton dryly.
'You know what I meant,' smiled Jenny soothing Fenton's socialist hackles.
'We have the same problem on the wards,' said Jenny, 'There's been a sudden outbreak of 'flu' so we're about a third under strength. In fact, I may have to go on nights sooner than I thought.' Flu' seems to have hit the night staff worst of all.'
'People associate darkness with danger,' said Fenton.
Jenny got up to switch the television on. 'Anything in particular you want to see?' she asked.
Fenton said not. He was going to have another attempt at deciphering Neil Munro's notes.
'You're working too hard,' said Jenny. 'You'll make yourself ill and that will do the lab no good at all.'
'Just an hour or so. I promise.'
Fenton collected Munro's book, a notepad and some pencils and took them to another room where he would have quiet. His immediate problem was that the front room of the flat was so cold. He switched on the electric fire and crouched down in front of it till it made some impression on the still, icy air.
Just as on previous occasions the stumbling block in Munro's notes lay in the fact that he had given no indication of what units the figures, in neat columns, referred to. Temperature? Volume? Time? Without that information the notes comprised several meaningless columns of figures interspersed with occasional letters of the alphabet. Fenton tried fitting the figures to various biochemical parameters but without success. After an hour he kept his word to Jenny and put the book aside. He rejoined her to watch the News on television.
THREE
In Ward Four of the Princess Mary Hospital Timothy Watson was not having a good day. It had started badly when he had not been allowed any breakfast and had got worse when a man in a white coat had pricked his arm with a needle after personally assuring him that it was not going to hurt. Grown-ups were not to be trusted. Shortly afterwards the protests had died on his lips as the drowsiness of pre-medication had stolen over him and the world had suddenly become lighter, warmer, fluffier, fuzzier until suddenly it wasn't there any more. Now his bed lay empty, with the covers turned down and his Teddy Bear sitting on the pillow, limbs askew, patiently awaiting his return.
The plastic name tag on Timothy's wrist was his only introduction to many of the green clad figures who now hovered over him, intent on freeing him from the breathlessness that had plagued him from birth. The comforting blip of the heart monitor sounded regularly as synchronous spikes chased each other across the green face of an oscilloscope and the muted sound of classical music emanated from concealed speakers in Theatre number two.
James Rogan looked up at the theatre clock and gave a satisfied grunt. 'Going to knock three minutes off my record eh Sister?'
'Yes sir,' answered theatre sister Rose Glynn without moving her eyes. Dutiful laughter added to the already relaxed atmosphere round the table, an atmosphere not left to chance. The green smocks, the smooth pastel walls, the shadowless light, the perfect temperature and, of course, the surgeon's own choice of music conspired to produce perfect conditions for the surgical team.
'How is he doing?' Rogan asked the anaesthetist.
'Steady as a rock.'
'Money for old rope eh Sister?'
'Yes sir.'
'Spencer — Wells!'
Rose Glynn slapped the forceps into Rogan's gloved hand as he continued with a commentary for the benefit of his two assistants. Without pausing he asked for instruments in mid sentence and Rose Glynn slapped them into his hand; she never missed a request; she had worked with Rogan so often before.
'All Right Allan, sew him up,' said Rogan to his chief assistant. He stepped back from the table and stripped his gloves off in dramatic fashion before saying, “Thank-you everybody,' and turning on his heel to make an exit through both swing doors.
'Who was that masked man Mummy?' asked one of the assistants under his breath but loud enough for everyone in the theatre to hear. Eyes met above masks and twitching ears signalled smiles hidden behind gauze. A student nurse giggled and Rose Glynn froze her with a stare. 'Can we start the count sir?' she asked.
'Yes Sister, thank-you.'
Rose Glynn and her student nurse ran through the swab and instrument count ensuring that all were accounted for. The tally was agreed, the stitching completed and the patient wheeled out into the recovery room. Two hours later he was back in bed with his teddy bear and sleeping soundly. His parents who had spent an anxious day at the hospital were able to leave for home and their first good night's sleep for many weeks.
At eight fifteen Staff nurse Carol Mileham noticed Timothy Watson become restless in his sleep and went over to him. She smoothed the hair back from his forehead and found that he was very hot. Half turning to go and call the duty houseman she was stopped by a gurgling sound from the boy's throat; she bent down to listen and a cascade of bright red blood erupted from his mouth, drenching her apron and splashing silently on to the sheets.
The surgical team and Timothy Watson had their unscheduled reunion in theatre number four and the atmosphere was very different from the previous occasion. There were no smiles, no jokes and no music. The irregular blip of the heart monitor probed the team's nerves like a dentist's drill, the spikes constantly dodging anticipation. Rogan had come directly from home on getting his houseman's call. 'Massive internal bleed,' had been the message that had brought him racing to the hospital still in carpet slippers.
